Paper Jam
by MonicaMeMe
Summary: Response to the challenge: Dean and Sam get day jobs. Dean in an office? Sam in a warehouse? There's going be to trouble.
1. Part 1

**A/N: **Response to the challenge: Sam and Dean get day jobs.  
Warning: Some language and a bit of gore.

**PAPER JAM (PART 1) **

"Paper Jam! I'll paper jam you…" Dean's finger clutched the sides of the photocopying machine as he glared at the blinking words – Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam – and tried not to growl or, you know, chuck the thing across the room. The photocopying machine was big, but Dean had no doubt he could take it. Instead, Dean took a deep breath to calm himself and unclenched his fist, jabbing a few buttons at random to try and fix the damn problem.

Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.

Dean yanked at his tie, loosening it and growling under his breath. "How do people wear these frickin' nooses." He jabbed some more buttons.

Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.

Losing patience, Dean balled up his fist and pounded the machine, making it rattle and causing a few startled gasps around him.

"Having trouble?"

Dean whipped around to find Gus standing there, rocking on his feet calmly, belly straining against his pressed shirt and a steaming coffee mug in one hand. He was watching Dean with something between smugness and mild curiosity.

"No, I get off on beating up photocopying machines." Dean was not in the mood to play polite. He was wearing a frickin' suit and arguing with a photocopier, for crying out loud. He was not happy.

Gus smiled. "These pesky machines can be a mite challenging, they take some getting use to. You'll get there. Eventually. One day. After practice."

"Gee, Gus, is that how you got your nifty desk job? Years of practice refining your photocopying skills?"

"And the right attitude," Gus responded in his calm voice, taking a sip of his coffee.

Dean rolled his eyes. "The thing's broken, fix it would ya." He glanced at Gus and reluctantly stepped back to give him access. "Please," he added, spitting the word out through clenched teeth.

"Okay dokay." Gus leaned forward and read the flashing screen. "It has a paper jam."

"Gee, that's some deductive skills you got there, Gus-y. What's that _mean_?"

"That the paper is jammed."

"How do I _fix _it?"

"Not by jabbing the buttons," Gus chuckled. "That'd be like yelling at a ticket inspector to prevent a fine."

"What?" Dean scowled and loosened his tie further.

Gus lightly tapped the side of the machine with his foot. "You have to unjam the paper manually."

"Do you know how?"

"Yeppers."

Dean stared at Gus, raising his eyebrows and expecting him to fix it. Instead, Gus smiled again, took another sip of his coffee and strolled away.

Dean clenched his fists until they turned white. _He's not a demon, Dean. You can't cut off someone's head just because they're annoying… No matter how much you want to. _Dean sighed and hitched up his slacks, kneeling in front of the panel on the side of the photocopier. "No wonder all those suits plunge out of windows: paper jams, noose ties, pants that collect dust… Guses." Dean pulled at the panel door, trying to open it, not caring that he must appear like a mad man to anyone paying the slightest attention. "Hell, _I'm_ aboutready to jump out a window." Using more force than he'd intended, the machine's panel suddenly broke loose and came off in Dean's hands, small screws shooting in all directions. Startled, Dean looked from the square, metal door in his hand to the gaping hole in the machine's side.

He could see the jammed paper, at least.

"Mr. Barry."

Dean reached in to grab the tangled piece of paper.

"Mr. BARRY."

"Huh? Oh right, that's me." Dean whipped around and abruptly stood up, clanging his head against one of the photocopier's protruding parts. "Son of a b - " Dean realised it was his boss who'd called him. "B…." For the life of him Dean couldn't think of another word starting with 'b'. "Bi…noculars?"

His boss sighed, his eyes traveling from the broken bit of machine in Dean's hands to the stack of papers yet to be photocopied. "I thought you said you had years experience as an office clerk."

"I do," Dean defended, rubbing his sore head. "It's just…" he glanced back at the photocopier. "These newfangled things, you know how it is, give 'em the lightest tap and they just…fall apart…" his chuckle died out. "I'll pay for it." _Ha!_ His brain shouted.

The man standing in front of Dean sighed again. "Look, I'll get someone else to finish up here. You can get me a coffee, can you do that Mr. Barry?"

Dean smiled tightly, biting back a retort. "Sure can, boss."

"Make it a latte."

Dean turned to go before realizing he was still holding the broken-off door. He looked around; seeing nowhere to place it he offered it to his boss, who took it incredulously, then abruptly turned and headed for the staff kitchen. "Make it a latte," Dean grumbled under his breath. "Yeah, I'll make it a latte and then pour it over your shiny head…"

Dean pushed open the door and strode into the little kitchen, ignoring the looks we was receiving from the few people already in there. He jumped into a sitting position on the counter and used one hand to dig his phone from his pocket while the other reached for the cupboards next to his head, searching for some food. He found a box of flavoured crackers and pulled them out. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean opened the box and dug his hand in, pulling out a handful of crackers and shoving them into his mouth.

"Dean?" Sam answered, finally picking up.

"I think my suit's possessed," Dean said, mouth full.

"Why do you think your suit's possessed, Dean?" Sam's voice came back through the line with a smile in the words, playing along.

"Pick a reason. It's trying to strangle me, it won't let me bend properly, it's cold when it's cold, stuffy when it's hot, and it chaffs in places that should not be chaffing."

Sam chuckled. "I told you, Dean, you should've let me take that gig. How's thing's going with that secretary, anyway? Still worth it?"

Dean craned his neck and peeked through the doorway longingly, just able to see the side of the receptionist's face as she smiled, talking on the phone. He sighed. "It'd be going better if she wasn't always on the phone and I wasn't being forced to photocopy and file shit all the time."

"You file?" Sam out right laughed, obviously not trying to mask his amusement anymore.

Dean scowled, putting aside the box of crackers and searching through the cupboards again. He grabbed whatever it was his hand had just passed over and crinkled. _Score._ It was a packet of cookies. "Yeah, I file," Dean defended, ripping the packet open and biting into one. "And it's boring as hell: no one leads any interesting lives these days, it's all work this, career that. Where the hell's all the, you know, soap opera stuff. The affairs, the dirt. See what I put up with for the hunt?"

"If by hunt, you mean to get into some girl's pants, I'm not surprised, and - " Sam paused. "Dean, you _read_ the files you were filing?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged.

Sam spluttered for a second. "You can't do that."

"Why? It's not your file." Dean brushed off his hands and tossed the packet into the nearest bin.

"That's not the point."

"Funny. Who was it you were impersonating last month? And I seem to recall you in a priest outfit once…huh, didn't know you'd taken the vows, Sammy."

Dean grinned, hearing his brother sigh.

"I swear Dean, talking to you is like trying to knock sense into a brick wall…a stubborn, annoying brick wall."

"You forgot 'good-looking'. How're things on your end? Any sign of the…" Dean glanced at the few people mingling in the small room, well within earshot "…taxman?"

"Not yet. But I rechecked, just to make sure we're on the right track, and all the victims definitely worked at the building your 'working' in. And I'm using that term lightly. They were all slaughtered in one of the five warehouses the company owns. No order, just whichever warehouse was free at the time, I guess."

"Yeah, yeah, don't need a recap. Found anything yet so we can kill this…taxman…and I can leave this godforsaken hell hole?" Dean glanced at the small group of people who weren't even trying to hide their shock. "No offence guys. I'm sure you find this hell hole real cozy." He shifted on the bench so that his back was turned to them. "And before my kind colleagues rip _me _to pieces," he said more quietly.

"You can't last one week without pissing someone off, can you? Okay, well I've checked out two of the warehouses and didn't find anything, so I'm about to check the third now. Any suspects on your end?"

"Gus."

"Gus?"

Dean frowned for a second, thinking. "And my boss."

Another audible sigh hit his ear. "It's been two weeks since this thing last fed. It's going to attack again; you have to get serious."

"And I am serious. Seriously annoyed. They _could _be the bad guys, why not just chop off their heads and see if green stuff starts squirting out?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. 'There's no time for jokes in Sam land'"

"You keep digging around, I'll call you if I find anything."

"Wait, wait," Dean said, hopping off the counter.

"What?"

"How do I make a latte?"

* * *

Sam pocketed his phone and tried to wipe the smile off his face. What he wouldn't pay to see his brother working at an office. The thought alone gave him the incentive to figure out what was committing these murders as quickly as possible so that he could catch Dean in office-clerk-mode. He chuckled and stride up to the next warehouse on his list of five. 

Sam stopped at the entrance to look up at the building, trying to 'read' something from it. But nothing struck him as off; it looked just like any other warehouse – big and bland. The windows stood high, near the roof, and were coated black from years of neglect and dust, and the pavement beneath his feet was worn down by tire marks and heavy loads. But all this was nothing out of the ordinary. _Were you expecting a big arrow painted in blood_?

Sam fished a tag out of his pocket and clipped it to his overalls' pocket. It read: Sam Menzies. He then pushed open the side door and walked in. A group of workers sat in a lazy circle on some upturned crates and they all turned and squinted at Sam through the sunlight his entry let tumble in.

"Uh, hi," Sam said, walking up to them with a smile and extending his hand. No one extended his greeting or offered any indication that he was welcome. They just stared, chewing on tobacco and taking an occasional drag of their cigarettes. The cigarette smoke floated around their heads so heavily that Sam could barely gauge their reactions – was that suspicion or menace being fired at him? Though he could see their tussled hair and the large tattoos peeking out from a few of the men's rolled up sleeves.

"Okay," Sam said, lowering his hand and shoving it into his pocket. _You fight ghosts and demons, Sam, what's a few surly workers? _"Well, I'm Sam. I'm…new. Just hired."

"What you do?" one of the men asked, before chomping on his cigar and frowning up at Sam.

"What do I do?"

"What dumbass means is what's your qual-i-fi-cations and such?" another asked. He was tall and lanky with scrunched up features, like he was perpetually watching for something.

"Uh," Sam glanced around the warehouse. "Forklifts," he blurted, his eyes falling on the closest machine. "I drive forklifts."

"Bert drives forklifts."

Bert – or who Sam assumed was Bert – stood up. He was barrel-chested with long curly hair, and was one of the few people Sam had seen tower over him. Sam gulped.

"You one of the bosses' kids? Here to tell me I'm fired? Replace me? One of their moles?"

"Who's moles?"

"There's."

A collective snarl emitted from the group and they all feigned spitting. _Okay, strange…_

"Them. The bour..ges..ie…"

"The bourgeoisie?" Sam offered, raising his eyebrow.

"Yeah, them. The white collar clowns up there," he pointed up and then frowned. "No, there," he said, pointing instead in the direction of the building Dean was working in - the company that ran this warehouse.

"Seriously, guys." Sam said held up his hands. "I'm not a mole, or a spy, and I can honestly say I'm living out of my car most days. I'm not one of…them. I'm just the new guy. Promise."

Bert squinted at Sam and gave him a once over before striding up to him and locking his arm around Sam's neck. Sam tensed, ready to slip through the hold and fight back. But then Bert tussled Sam's hair and laughed. "He's one of us, fellas!" He pulled Sam into the group and offered him an upturned crate.

Sam sat down and smiled weakly, watching as the group abruptly stopped eyeing him and continued to deal cards and shove fast food into their mouths.

"Want?" Bert asked, offering his cigarette.

Sam got a whiff of the smell. Okay, not a cigarette. "Explaining a lot," he muttered.

"Hah?"

"Nothing. No, I'm okay. I don't…smoke." Sam looked around at the small group as they played cards between themselves. They all looked a bit unkempt and tired. "So, uh, do you always interrogate the newcomers like that?"

Bert shrugged. "Pretty much," he said, tossing a few cards onto the makeshift table.

Sam nodded, rubbing his hands together and looking around at the dark warehouse. "Why?" he asked, turning back to the group.

"Can't be too careful, you know?" answered the tall and lanky one, looking at Sam earnestly. "Today's society, man. It's corrupt. The government, and shit, you know? The bosses don't like us 'coz we're union, they can't control us like their other lab rats. Big brother and all that, he's watching you, you know." Tall and lanky cocked his head. "Not you specifically, the _royale _you."

"Royal," another worker corrected.

Sam's frown deepened and he rubbed his forehead. "So, the government is corrupt, which we all knew, but they're using the company you work for who, in turn, are hiring spies to infiltrate this warehouse?" Sam tried to keep the smile from his face, but then he shrugged. "I guess stranger things have happened. Like moving wardrobes with minds."

"Yeah, man, they infiltrate, you know? Trying to find reason to fire us. Prove that we're slackers." He slapped some cards onto the table. "Three," he asked the card dealer.

"So, you guys must really hate the people who work up there in that building?" Sam tried to sound nonchalant as his suspicion began to form.

"Ignore Chad," replied the man who'd corrected Chad. "He's a conspiracy nut. These break times don't help that, you know?" he gestured towards the smoke in Chad's hand. "We just like giving the newbies a hard time. We knew you were one of us the second you walked in. You have our hair."

Sam automatically touched his hair, insulted and glad to hell Dean wasn't around to hear that. He chose to ignore that comment. "It's tragic about all those deaths round here lately, isn't it?" Again he tried to sound nonchalant, but he watched the group closely and was startled when, almost as one, they froze and glanced up at Sam.

"What you know about it?" Bert asked, crossing his arms and leaning back.

Sam cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, finding himself under scrutiny again. "Just what I've heard in the news. Over the past few months, bodies have been found slaughtered. One every few weeks. Always in one of these, uh, five warehouses." He tugged at his overalls, clearing his throat again. "Just wondering how safe it is round here, that's all."

Bert's face relaxed and he wrapped at arm around Sam's shoulders, drawing him closer in a move Sam was sure hadn't _meant _to nearly topple him. "Don't worry, little buddy. You're safe with us. You're part of the team now. The team looks out for each other."

Sam smiled tightly, glancing at the hairy hand squeezing his shoulder. "I feel safer already."

"But, still…something fishy there, you know? It doesn't add up," Chad said, leaning in closer to Sam and talking in a hushed tone.

"What do you mean?" Sam whispered back.

"A serial killer, maybe a disgruntled ex-employee killing colleagues, that's what they're saying, right? But the bodies are all teared up. Have you ever met an office personnel type that can lift a rock, let lone tear someone up? And the warehouses are never broken into. No picked lock, no shattered glass. It's a conspiracy, man. Something fishy here. I can smell it."

"That's your breath, Chad," Bert said, standing up, laughing nervously. "Break's over."

The group stood up one by one, stretching and collecting their rubbish, turning the crates back around and stacking them neatly. Sam stood and moved back reluctantly. He wanted to keep digging, but didn't know how to keep the topic going without creating suspicion himself.

"You use the forklift today," Bert said, slapping Sam's shoulder and making him lurch a little "You can move that stuff over there."

Sam's eyes widened. "Wha…no, really, you're the forklift guy, I don't want to mess with that. Really."

Bret shrugged, already walking away. "We'll take turns. I'll use it tomorrow."

Sam's mouth hung open a little as he turned to look at the forklift sitting there, gleaming in the dust. Waiting. "Ah, crap."

* * *

"Yeah, exactly, like dungeons and dragons." Dean ignored the urge to roll his eyes. He was sitting at the small table in the staff kitchen, fiddling with a mug of untouched coffee. "Of course I didn't mean I'm _really _trying to kill a tax man. It's just…role playing. To pass the time." 

"So you pretend to be a taxman hunter?" one of his colleagues sneered, dumping a packet of sugar into his coffee.

"…Yeah." Dean clenched his teeth. Seriously, he couldn't have thought of something better to explain the overheard conversation?

"And what's the deal with the squirting green blood thing," a woman asked, looking genuinely curious.

"Uh…points. Yeah…If they squirt out - imaginary, of course - green blood, we get points."

"That makes no sense," the colleague, Brad, sneered again.

"…Yeah it does."

"In geek land, maybe."

Dean glowered. "You're going to be in pummeled land in a second," he muttered. "So," he said more loudly. "All these deaths lately. Who does everyone suspect? It's Gus, right? He looks like the serial-killer type." Being subtle was Sam's card, Dean had no patience for it.

"Nah, it's definitely a brawd," Brad said.

"Would you like us to refer to you as a mongrel?" Jan snapped.

"Why do you think it's a female doing the deadly deeds?" Dean asked.

"All the victims were male," Brad shrugged.

"That's true…"

"I'm not saying I condone murder or anything," Jan interrupted. "But they all deserved to die."

Dean frowned at this, watching Jan carefully. "Yeah?"

"They were pigs, the lot of them. Always hitting on anything with boobs; rude, inconsiderate - "

"Selfish," another colleague added, walking into the room and pulling up a chair.

" –womanizing players."

"Nothing like a scorned women." Brad turned to Dean. "You think we deserve to be killed just for having a bit of fun?"

"Hell no," Dean scoffed without thinking. He suddenly found himself the target of some very pissed-off glares. "Uh, and by that I mean…hell…is the place where…sinners…the male type?…will…uh…end…You know, I bet my boss is waiting for that coffee." Dean sprung up and grabbed the mug sitting forgotten, until now, on the counter.

"Hey, where'd all the food go?" The group at the table turned to glare at Dean.

"I'll pay for it!" _Ha!_ his brain shouted again as he hurried from the kitchen, shaking his head and further loosening his tie. "Worst hunt ever," he muttered. Yeah, including the time he was almost electrocuted to death.

"Talking to yourself?"

Dean turned to find the receptionist watching him. He grinned. _Finally_, _all this may just be worth it. _He sauntered up to the reception desk and leaned against it, smiling at her. "Well I keep seeing you on these phones here and you made talking to no-one look so tempting, I just had to try it myself."

She giggled. "But, in my case, there are people on the other end of the line."

Dean raised his eyebrows playfully. "Huh, you don't say? I like your necklace," he said, using it as an excuse to lean closer, but his attempts were cut short by a shriek coming from the office block behind them.

"Spider! Kill it, kill it!"

Dean clenched his jaw, annoyed that her attention had been stolen from him. "I'll be back in a second," he said, starting to walk towards the source of the commotion but popping back a second later. "Don't go anywhere. Seriously."

Dean grabbed the latte and marched into the office space to find people backed up on chairs and watching, eyes wide, as a huge tarantula scuttled over desks, having somehow found its way into the terrain of the office folk.

"Guys!" Dean yelled. "Would you keep it down? You're making it _very _hard for me to hit on the receptionist!"

The shrieks continued. Growling and grumbling, Dean grabbed a pen from one of the desks and strode up to the spider, impaling it to the desk in one swift move.

The shrieks stopped and everyone gaped at Dean. He lifted his arms in exasperation. "Was that so hard?" He turned to leave when someone called him back. Dean swiveled around to find Gus sitting in his desk chair, arms raised away from his desk in disgust. He glanced from the impaled spider to Dean.

"What?"

Gus pointed at the dead spider. "Uh, aren't you going to clean that up?"

Dean breathed in deeply, clenching the fist not holding the cup of coffee. "Do it yourself, Barney." He turned quickly to avoid an argument, and smacked right into an office helper, spilling half the coffee and almost pushing her over. Dean's arm sprung out to steady her. "Woah, hey, you okay?"

She glanced down at her sopping wet feet. "These are new shoes! And my toes are all wet."

Dean frowned. "Well that's what you get for not wearing appropriate footwear." He skirted around her and yanked open his boss's door with more force than he'd intended.

His boss looked up, startled. Dean slammed down the mug on his paperwork, ignoring that a ring of coffee was seeping into the papers, and turned to leave.

"This is cold," his boss protested.

"We were out of hot water," Dean retorted, slamming the door closed behind him. He leaned against it, feeling a headache forming.

"Mr. Barry," Gus called in that lilting voice of his and Dean turned to find people still staring at him.

"Eat the damn spider! I don't care! I killed it, clean up duty is not my problem," Dean threw his hands up in exasperation and stalked out of there. "I'm in hell," he muttered. "This is hell, and I am in it."

Returning to the reception hall, he found the secretary preoccupied with a costumer. Dean hung his head, resigned - _Fate hates me._

_

* * *

TBC _


	2. Part 2

**Paper Jam: Part 2 **

Sam and his new co-workers just stood, staring at the pile of broken bricks, at the hole in the warehouse and at the forklift as it groaned and creaked, smashed up against the wall. Sam cringed as the forklift titled further to the side, dislodging some more bricks.

Bert scratched his head, looking at the mess. "You're not having a great first day, are ya, Sam?"

Chad tilted his head, watching the forklift as it finally toppled to its side, groaning and clanging as it hit the floor. "So you didn't know it was in reverse, ey?"

Sam sighed. "I'm really sorry, guys. I don't know how…usually I can drive these things. Really." He felt genuinely bad. And embarrassed. _Way to stay off the radar, Sam. _

Bert wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't worry about it, little buddy. Accidents happen."

"I'll clean it up," Sam said in haste.

"Nah, me and Joe do the clean up," Chad said, lighting a cigarette and looking unperturbed. "Gets us out of painting that damn back wall. Who the hell's going to see the back wall anyway? I'm telling ya, they're trying to kill us with the paint fumes. It's all part of their plan."

"Yeah, don't worry, man," Joe said, grinning. "My first day, I ran over Chad's foot."

Chad chuckled. "I remember that. Hurt like hell," he said, smiling at the memory.

"Is there anything I can do? At all?" Sam picked up one of the broken bricks and turned in a circle, trying to find someplace to dump it. But then his phone went off in his pocket and he jumped, startled, dropping the brick onto his foot. He bit his lip and tried not to cry out, aware that he was already getting strange looks. Even from Chad. "I should get this," he managed to say, his eyes watering. He limped away, into the small locker room and flipped open his phone. "I just crashed a forklift into a wall," Sam said by way of answering, pushing his hand through his hair.

"Huh?"

"I can't believe I did that. It could've been a dead give away that I'm not a warehouse worker. But, the guys, they were nice about it, really nice. So now I feel bad no only because I ruined the wall but because I suspect them. What if they are connected to the killings? They're so nice…a bit crazy, but nice."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam said, peering around the doorway and cringing at the sight of the crash – it looked worse from this angle.

"Snap out of it!"

"…what?"

"So you crashed into a wall. Whoop-de-doo! Do you have any idea what I've been through? Lattes and sandals and photocopiers and Gus. You have to get me out of here, man. I'm going crazy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "A bit dramatic, don't you think, Dean? You're not in a war zone, you're in an office. And we still don't know who's killing those - "

"I do," Dean cut in.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You found something?"

"Yep. It's my damn co-workers. It's a conspiracy, man."

"Oh god, not you too."

"No, seriously, listen. All the victims were male, right? And they all worked in this building, yeah? But the females here, they're all scornful-like, they think those dudes deserved to die. So, obviously, they're the ones doing the hacking."

Sam frowned. "They're the ones getting into the warehouses, undetected, and…eating… the men?"

"Yes. And I'm next."

Sam shifted the phone to his other ear, paying more attention. "Why do you think that?"

"'Cause I'm a chauvinist pig."

Sam raised his eyebrows, so surprised that it took him a second to respond. "Um, glad you've finally realised this, Dean, but how's that relevant?"

Sam heard Dean sigh, annoyed. "Because, smart ass, the victims have all been, you know, player types. And to some – _some_ – I may give off the, you know…player vibe."

"Oh to some?" Sam smirked.

"Yeah, those who can't read people properly."

Sam rolled his eyes and was about to remark when he noticed a timetable hanging on the wall. He walked over and scanned it quickly. "Dean? I'll call you back."

"No, Sam, I'm not stayi-"

Sam flipped his phone shut, pocketing it. He ran his finger across the delivery times marked for each warehouse – and the closing times for the office building than ran them - then looked to see which would be closed after dark. The warehouses were all open late for business, but the office block was closing early for the long weekend. Tonight. Dean would just have to wait a bit longer before he could leave that place.

Sam unzipped his full-body workers' overalls, and quickly hopped out of it, revealing a pressed shirt and black slacks beneath.

"Sam, can you grab us some bags -"

Bert stopped short, mouth falling open and eyes widening as he took in Sam, standing there in his business attire, overalls balled up his hand. "What's this?" he asked, crossing his arms and breathing deeply.

"It's not what it looks like," Sam said quickly, caught.

A few of the other workers crowded in behind Bert, looking Sam up and down. "Wow, newbie _is _a mole?"

"No, guys, I'm not a mole, just let me explain."

"We trusted you, man," Bert said, looking…dejected. "Let you in the fold. You were like a brother."

"But it was all a lie," Joe added, shaking his head at Sam.

"You're not one of us," Bert said, turning and walking away.

Grumbling the others followed: "He probably crashed the forklift on purpose." "Yeah, makes sense, what moron _can't_ drive a forklift?" "I just though he was a bit slow, you know, didn't think he was a spy." "And to think I was going to share my lunch with him."

"Guys," Sam pleaded. "C'mon, just listen!" Sam started after them, but stopped short, frowning. What was he doing? He'd known these people for less than a day! Shaking his head at the insane turn this whole hunt had taken, Sam quickly left the warehouse. By the back door.

* * *

"Score," Dean mumbled as he threw another pencil and it wedged itself in one of the little holes decorating the ceiling. He went to grab another pencil from his desk but found he'd used them all. Sighing, he removed his feet from the desk and let his chair fall forward. He looked dejectedly at the list of people he was meant to call and 'kindly' remind them their credit card payments were overdue. 

Pushing the papers aside, he grabbed the phone and dialed.

"Joes' Pizza, what's your order?"

"Yeah, hi, do you deliver to office buildings?"

"Mr. Barry."

Dean looked up to find his boss gesturing to him.

"I was going to share."

"See me in my office, please."

Dean sighed noisily. "Gotta put that order on hold," Dean said into the receiver.

"Bro, your boss sounds like a hardass. My condolences."

"Word of advice", Dean said. "Never leave the pizza industry. You got it good there."

Dean reluctantly straightened his tie, glaring at it in the process, and walked towards his boss's office. "You hollered?" he asked, poking his head in.

"Sit down please, Mr. Barry."

"Call me Jeeves," Dean muttered, slumping into a chair and about to rest his leg on the desk, before thinking better of it. "So, this is about the pizza?"

"What pizza?"

"No pizza. What's up?"

His boss sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together. "How should I put this? You haven't exactly been…a model employee." He watched for Dean's reaction.

"Do model employees get anything? Bonuses, say? A plaque?"

"They get respect."

"Dude, you gotta offer something more or who _would_ be a straight-laced chump?"

His boss just glared, not impressed.

"I mean…boss, sir." Dean shifted, sitting up straighter. "I'm just kidding, of course," his chuckle died down and he coughed. "So, not a great employee, ey? What am I doing wrong?"

"One, you're late most mornings."

"You guys start at eight," Dean said incredulously. "Isn't that against, like, the human rights declaration?"

"Two," the boss continued. "I've been getting complaints from your co-workers."

"What? From who?"

His boss raised an eyebrow. "I'm not privileged to say."

"It's Gus, isn't it?" Dean hit the chair arms, annoyed. "That guy has something against me, sir. He isn't as dumb as he looks."

"Dean," his boss reasoned. "It would seem _you _have something against _him._ You did impale a spider to his desk."

Dean gaped, indignant. "I killed a spider, I didn't know who's desk it was on! That guy's paranoid. Freaky little paranoid man"

"It seems you have a pathological dislike of Gus."

"Pathological! Dude, I'm not pathological anything."

"This isn't a point of discussion, Mr. Barry."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "My pathology isn't a point of discussion?" He sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Whatever, so am I fired?"

"No," his boss said, leaning back also. "When speaking to your previous employer to get a reference, he did indicate that you have…issues…but nothing that won't be helped by some work-funded anger classes."

"Huh!" Dean gaped, staring at his boss in shock.

"It's quite alright. Quite common, actually."

"Wha…previous employer?" Dean clenched his fists to keep from snarling. _I'm going to kill you, Sam. _

"Plus, you're the only one whose resume indicates experience in shareholding and stock exchange."

"In share-whatting?"

"And we just happened to get a call from a potential client who's very interested in some professional advice before he decides to invest with us. So you'll be talking to him shortly."

Dean raised an eyebrow, still staring at him shock. "Huh!"

A knock on the office door interrupted.

"Ah, that must be him." The boss stood up to open the door, ignoring Dean's perplexed expression. In stepped Sam, hair combed back, tie in place, shoes polished.

"Oh, you fucker!"

Dean's boss whipped around, shock and outrage battling on his face. "Excuse me!"

Dean's eyes widened. "No, no," he quickly corrected, realizing it looked like he'd just sworn at a potential client, and not his smirking brother. "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's quite alright," Sam interrupted smoothly, smiling at Dean's boss. "I'm use to those reactions." He turned to Dean. "He'll make it up to me with some winning stock exchange advice, won't you?"

Dean smiled tightly, shooting daggers at Sam. "Oh, I'll make it up to you alright."

They walked out and as soon as they were out of eyesight, Dean slapped Sam over the head. "What was that, huh?"

Sam laughed, rubbing his head. "Hey, you wanted out of there."

"And the anger classes? You told him I have anger problems?" Dean hissed.

"You do," Sam shrugged, stepping out of the way before Dean could swipe at him again. "Look, you were the one that chose this gig, remember? I offered to play the office clerk."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, yanking off his tie and chucking it in the closest trash can. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I think the killer is going to attack again tonight," Sam answered, lowering his voice and leading Dean behind a giant pot plant.

"My co-workers are attacking again?"

Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment. "The warehouses are all running late into the night with deliveries and such, so whatever's killing those people can't use them. But, after two weeks without a feed, I figure it'd be getting hungry. But where can it bring its victim, undetected without resorting to a messy break-in if the warehouses are all booked out?"

Dean shrugged. "You're the one telling the story."

"Here," Sam said, smiling triumphantly.

"Here? You think this thing's gonna chow down in an office block?"

"Yeah. Dean, it makes sense. The building is closing early tonight because of the long weekend. It'll be completely empty. And we already know the killer has a connection to this office – its victims all worked here, it obviously knows how to get into those warehouses without needing to actually break in, so what's to bet it doesn't also have easy access to this office?"

Dean thought about this for a second. "How'd you find that out? I thought you said you couldn't find the warehouse schedules."

Sam shrugged. "I found them pinned to the wall."

Dean punched Sam in the shoulder angrily. "Are you telling me I spent two friggin weeks in the ninth realm of hell for _nothing_? You found the answer stuck to a _wall_?"

Sam tried his hardest to keep the smile from his face as he held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I didn't know I'd find the table stuck to the wall, Dean. Going undercover was our best chance at the time. And, look, you got to try out a different career, found out that it wasn't really for you. I think, all up, this hunt's been one of our better."

Dean glared at Sam, his mouth twitching, trying to work out which swear words to throw at Sam first. Instead, he roughly pulled open the door to the building and stalked out, refusing to stay in that place any longer than he had to.

* * *

That evening, they parked the car a few blocks down from the office building, not wanting to alert anyone of their presence. They were hoping to reach the place before the killer, of course, but in this line of work they could never be too cautious. 

"So you were doing the warehouse rounds, huh?" Dean said, walking besides Sam, both keeping their eyes sharp as they approached the building.

"Yeah," Sam answered, jogging up the stairs that led to the office's front door and peering inside, trying to catch any moving shadows.

Dean chuckled.

Sam frowned at him. "Why's that funny?"

"You were wearing overalls for two weeks."

"Hey, at least I didn't think they were possessed."

Dean's chuckle halted and he scowled. "I was in a delicate state of mind," he snapped.

Sam rolled his eyes and swung his bag of supplies forward, taking out their make-shift alarm decoder. Within a minute he'd unlocked the door, and they opened it quietly, creeping inside. Sam handed Dean a gun and, sticking to the shadows, they navigated their way through the lobby.

"And at least _I _didn't knock down a wall," Dean whispered, still annoyed by his brother's snark. "On your first day, too. You're a walking disaster, you know that?"

Sam felt a flush creep up his face and he tried to ignore Dean's amused expression. "It was an accident," he muttered.

"Smooth," Dean scoffed.

Sam slowed to a stop and gestured at Dean to be quiet. He cocked his head, listening. Muffled cries were coming from the distance. Sam looked over at Dean, who nodded to indicate he'd heard it. As lightly as possible, they ran towards the sounds, towards the actual office, and stopped short when they saw, in the middle of the office block, someone bent over a body, feeding. They aimed their guns.

"Hey!" Dean yelled. The thing whipped around.

Dean lowered his gun slightly, mouth falling open in shock. "Reception chick?"

Standing there, looking almost guilty, was the secretary from his office. She was still wearing her business skirt, blouse and heels, but her eyes were glowing yellow and large pointy teeth protruded from her mouth, while bloodied claws had formed from her fingers and rows of spikes covered her back. Her mouth, claws and face were smeared with blood.

They blinked at each other for a few seconds, stunned to see one another. Here. Like this.

"What?" Sam spluttered, whipping around to gape at his brother. "_That's_ the secretary you were chasing. _She's _the demon?" Sam laughed suddenly, his incredulity giving way to amusement at the crushed look on Dean's face. "That's classic."

The demon used the back of her hand to wipe some blood from her mouth, watching the brothers and growling softly.

"No, c'mon! My life cannot be this unfair!" Dean took a few steps closer to her. "You can't be the bad guy, you were too…" he trailed off making curvy motions with his hands. "Aw man," he sighed. "Are you sure you're one of the bad guys?"

"I think the claws and spiked back and, you know, the fact that she's _eating_ someone gives it away, Dean!" Sam answered for her.

The SheDemon growled again and, obviously shaking off her surprise at being caught, ran towards them, claws outstretched.

"Aw man," Dean repeated, silently cursing whatever god of Irony was laughing at him right now.

"Dean! Move it!"

Breaking out of his self-pitying stupor, Dean found himself about to be shishkabobbed by his crush's claws. "Woah." He quickly lifted his gun and fired. She sprang to the side, avoiding the bullet, but whipped back around and roared at Dean in anger, baring her teeth.

"That's just wrong," Dean complained, firing again before she had a chance to pounce. Her body became a blur as she dodged the bullet and continued to rush towards Dean. Dean aimed to fire again, but she grabbed his arm and threw him across the room, where he landed on a desk that buckled and broke under his weight. Dean groaned and rolled off of the splintered and tattered wood, accidentally crushing a framed picture with his elbow. He glanced at it and saw Gus's grinning face staring back through the glass shards. "I bet you're going to blame me for that too," Dean grumbled, before he felt Sam grab his arm and, before he could protest, pull him behind another desk.

"Man, what are you doing?" Dean growled, wringing away his arm.

"Here." Sam passed Dean a new cartridge of bullets. "I'm going to draw her attention. You go see if her victim's still alive, okay Romeo?"

But before Dean could answer, a shadow fell over them and they looked up to find the demon receptionist snarling at them. Before they had a chance to react, she grabbed each by the lapels of their shirts and flung them in opposite directions. Sam landed against a window that shattered and rained glass down on him, while Dean found his back colliding with the photocopier which, in turn, screamed into life and starting shooting out blank pieces of paper.

"Yeah, now you work." Dean struggled up but had to grab the machine as he slipped on the hundreds of papers now decorating the floor. He then had to duck out of the way as the photocopier titled over, shooting papers right at him like an angry pitcher. "Jeez, work safety, my ass."

_Sam. _Dean whipped around to find his brother struggling to get up, holding his head and obviously trying to shake away whatever birds were circling him after that collision with the window. Dean gulped, seeing the receptionist demon striding towards his brother. Where the hell was his gun?

Dean looked around, ignoring the flying papers and loud whirring of the photocopier. He couldn't find his weapon! But he did see an alternative. Dean ran up to his desk and used his chair to catapult him onto it. From the ceiling, he yanked free a handful of the pencils he's flung there earlier, and starting hurling them at the creature like miniature daggers. Whatever you wanted to say about office workers, they did keep their pencils sharp. The creature reared her back as the pencils struck. She turned to glare at Dean in an expression of annoyance he was all too used to, but hadn't expected to see from the reception chick until at least their second date. You know, before he'd found out she was a demon. She strode back towards him, claws clacking angrily.

Seeing that Dean didn't have his gun, Sam picked up his, having finally cleared his head, and fired at the demon, clipping her shoulder. She roared in pain and turned back to Sam, torn between which brother to chase. "Hey!" Sam yelled, waving his arms. "Think you can catch me in those heels?" He turned and sprinted into the maze of desks and chairs. She followed, snarling and knocking down computers in rage, causing the room to light up in a sea of sparks as they crashed to the ground.

Dean waited until they were further enough away for him to avoid snagging her attention, then he hopped off the desk and hurried towards the man lying sprawled on the floor. Dean squatted next to him and took in his injuries. Most of the blood was coming from his arm, where she'd taken the first bite, and he had a few scratches on his stomach. Nothing too serious. "Hey, man, you dead yet?" Dean prodded him.

The figure shifted a little and moaned. "Geek boy?"

Dean frowned and took a closer look. "Brad? Huh. You were hitting on her too, eh?" Dean took off one of his outer shirts and used it to staunch the bleeding on Brad's arm. "Man, looks _can _kill."

"Who _are_ you?" Brad asked, sitting up slowly. "A Superman wannabe? Geek boy by day, hero by night?"

"You're a real charming one," Dean said, shoving him back down harder than was necessary. "Stay there and play dead." Dean stood up, shaking his head. "Everyone's a comedian," he muttered, grabbing some more pencils and running after Sam and the demon.

* * *

Sam felt the air leave his lungs as he was thrown across the room, slamming into, and _through_, what he presumed was the door to the boss's office. He struggled to untangle himself from the splintered wood, winded and seeing dots, but before he knew it, the receptionist demon was standing in front of him, claws glinting, grinning down at him. She raised her arm and moved to plunge when suddenly she let out an "oomph" and was knocked sideways. Sam looked up to find… "Bert?" 

Bert smiled, tossing away the plank of wood he'd used and offering his hand to Sam. Sam grabbed it automatically and let Bert pull him up, staring at Bert the whole time, his mouth sliding open and a puzzled frown hijacking his features. "You okay, little buddy?" Bert asked. "Didn't get a head injury did ya?"

"Uh…no, what…how…" Sam trailed off, watching as the rest of the group from the warehouse surrounded him. He walked out of the small room where he'd landed and gaped at them all.

"Sam!"

In a daze, Sam turned to find Dean running up to him, having seen the group emerge from the lobby just as he and Sam had. "Who are these bozos?"

"Uh, my ex-co-workers," Sam offered.

Dean raised an eyebrow, glancing over the group of unkempt, overall-wearing men who stood casually, make-do weapons in their hands – planks of wood, hammers, a toilet plunger. He leaned closer to Sam. "So I'm not the only one who had the wool pulled over my eyes, huh?"

Sam was about to respond when he noticed what Dean was holding. "You planned to rescue me with _pencils?_"

Dean looked down at the pencils clenched in his fist and shrugged. "I lost my gun."

But before anyone had a chance to say anything else, the receptionist demon regained consciousness and sprang back up. With an angry roar she shot tentacles out from her body and lashed them at the group.

Dean saw one swing towards him, but could only think "_Aw, man, tentacles too?" _before he found himself flung off his feet. He landed on the ground with a grunt, miraculously avoiding the desks this time. He gingerly lifted himself onto his elbows, rubbing his chest where she'd hit him. He looked over to find Sam and all his colleagues also trying to pick themselves up off the floor. Then he saw Sam's eyes widen.

"Dean!" Sam cried, quickly trying to reload his gun.

Dean turned to look at the direction Sam had pointed. The receptionist demon was striding towards him with her claws extended, tentacles squirming, and eyes glowing yellow. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Dean," he muttered to himself, scrambling backwards and scanning the carpet for his gun. He used a desk ledge to propel himself to his feet and started chucking at her whatever he could find: Keyboards, mouse pads, folders, pens, photographs, dancing coke bottles, even a frickin' pair of fluffy handcuffs (why the hell _they_ were here, Dean didn't want to know). But then a glint caught his eye and Dean quickly glanced over. There, half hidden under a pile of papers, near the upturned photocopier, lay his gun.

Dean dove for it, covering his head from the onslaught of firing paper. He scooped it up, just as her shadow fell over him, and he quickly spun around, firing randomly.

In a feat of luck he'd be bragging about for months, the bullet penetrated her chest with a _schlep_ and stopped her short. Dean grimaced and watched with something between disgust and intrigue as her whole body began to shake violently. Then she exploded:

_SPLAT!_

Dean flinched and shut his eyes as green mucus splattered against him. He opened his eyes one by one and slowly stared down at himself, lifting his arms away from his body in disgust. He sighed, using his sleeve to wipe the stuff from his face. "This week sucks," he muttered, slowly standing up and tearing away the pieces of paper that had stuck to the slime now covering him head to foot.

Failing to keep the grin from his face, Sam hurried up to Dean and gave him a once over, shaking his head. "You look like a swamp monster." He wrinkled his nose. "And smell like one too."

Dean just glared, shaking off his arms. "And you look like a monkey, and smell like one too."

Sam rolled his eyes with a smile and turned back to the remains of the carcass. Using the tip of his shotgun, he scooped up the necklace that had miraculously survived. Crinkling his nose against the smell, he took a closer look at it. "Yeah, it's the black symbol for easy transformation between demon and human. She must have been posing as human to get easier access to meals."

"Hear that?" Dean called out to Brad, who was sitting on a desk, holding his arm and watching them with his sneer still in place. "You're a walking, talking McDonalds meal!" Still shaking off the goop, Dean approached Sam and squinted at the necklace. "Huh. I knew I'd seen that symbol before."

Sam frowned for a second, before turning to Dean, looking stunned. "Are you telling me you spent two weeks staring at this necklace and you never suspected her?"

Dean frowned, thinking back. "You know that does explain the spider. Don't these symbols need insect blood to remain active? The spider must have escaped. Well, whaddaya know."

Sam continued to stare at Dean. "That's it, Dean. I've decided, from now on, _everything's _your fault!" Sam turned to grab their bag.

"What?" Dean asked, raising his arms and shrugging. "You've never had anything slip your mind?"

Sam just shook his head and grabbed his cell. "I'm calling an ambulance for your friend there."

"And the cops," Bert said, reminding Sam and Dean that they were in the room.

Sam looked over at him, again frowning at how nonchalant he seemed about this whole demon thing. "Why?" he asked, growing weary.

"We found two of the tentacle lady's friends waiting out back." Bert turned to Chad and Joe. "Go bring 'em out here, thanks fellas."

Chad and Joe loped off into a back room, and Sam and Dean heard shuffling and angry female voices.

"Bad guys number two, come on down," Dean muttered.

Chad and Joe brought forth Jan and her friend, who Dean had met in the staff kitchen. Their arms were bound with rope and they did not look happy.

"Found 'em out back," Bert explained. "We realised that they're the ones who give the demon lady the key to the warehouses to get in and do her feedin'. But the building needs a swipe card, so they had to wait to let the demon lady out again."

"I knew it!" Dean shouted, practically jumping. "Didn't I tell you, Sam? Didn't I? Vengeful little buggers make deal with She Demon, get her a job as the receptionist, and voila, dead co-workers. Told you it was an office-worker conspiracy."

"You also told me you had the hots for a _human."_

Dean frowned, grumbling under his breath.

Ignoring him, Sam turned to the group of workers. "Um," he scratched his head. "How do you guys know about this whole…supernatural thing? How did you know that the demon would be here tonight?"

"Well," Chad said, crushing his cigarette on the nearest desk before pulling out a rolled up sheet of paper from inside his jacket and opening it for them to see. On it was a criss-cross of tables and markings, times and newspaper articles. "There's a pattern, see. Those two would come and talk to the head of the warehouses, find out what nights are free, or else book it in for late-night deliveries that never came. And every two weeks a body was found, all eaten-like. It's over two weeks since a murder, the killer must've been getting desperate. We just connected the dots."

"So, you're hunters?" Sam asked.

"No, workers. We just needed a hobby," Bert answered.

"O-kay," Dean turned to look at his brother. "And what were you saying about things going on under noses, Sammy? Looks like I wasn't the only one deceived by a pretty face, eh?" He nudged Sam and smirked when Sam widened his eyes and glared at him.

"It's a little different, Dean. You let a psychopathic, supernatural murderer slip under your radar."

"Same thing," Dean shrugged, heading for the exit.

"No, it really isn't!"

"Keep telling yourself that, bumble bee."

* * *

They could hear the sirens drawing closer as they stood in the entrance to the office. Dean was in a hurry to leave, but waited for Sam to have his obligatory goodbyes. 

"Thanks for, you know, saving my butt," Sam smiled, offering his hand to Bert, who instead wrapped Sam in a giant bear hug. "Woah, okay," Sam breathed, feeling his ribs crushing.

"We were wrong about you, newbie," Bert said, letting Sam go. "You _are _one of us."

Watching the exchange, Dean glanced over wearily when he felt someone lean in close to him. "I never doubted. Your brother has our hair," Chad said, nodding and blowing out smoke.

Dean coughed and moved away. "Don't blame me, I keep telling him he needs to cut that mop."

"You're a funny person," Chad said, pointing his finger at Dean and squinting. "But be careful, man, some people might misinterpret that as sarcasm, could get you in trouble, man. Get you on their radar. They don't like people who talk back, you know."

Dean smiled tightly. "I'll be sure to remember that. Sam! C'mon!"

Sam looked over at Dean and then smiled at Bert apologetically. "Be careful, okay? These things you guys are following can be dangerous." He started to head over to where Dean was standing but abruptly turned around again. "And I'm still really sorry about the wall."

"Don't worry, little buddy, it's something to remember you by."

Dean snorted. "You're going to be remembered by a hole in the wall," he teased quietly, but then started when Bert addressed him, striding closer.

"Bye newbie's brother."

Dean backed away. "Woah, dude. I don't do hugs." Dean then turned to Brad, who was leaning against a wall, looked pale and tired. "You going to try and hug me goodbye, cheeseburger?"

"She bit off a chunk off my arm," he mumbled, before looking at Dean. "Why the hell would I want to hug you?

"You're really not getting my humour, are you Prince Charming?"

"Wow, look at this place," Sam said, drawing Dean's attention. Dean leaned over and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent lights flickered on, bathing the place in a sickly glow. "Wow," Sam whispered. Desks were shattered, paper fluttered in the air as the photocopier continued to spit them out, destroyed computers sparked, the window was shattered and green goo covered most of the office.

Dean shrugged, unperturbed and almost smiling. "Oh well."

The sirens grew louder and, after a last wave at the workers, Sam and Dean hurried to their car and sped away from the scene. They drove in silence for a while, thinking.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam finally said, face scrunched up.

"Yeah newbie?"

"Is it just me, or was that one of our weirdest hunts…ever?"

Dean glanced at Sam. "Dude, I'm covered in my lust lady's insides and I just watched a very big, scary, tattooed man get teary seeing you go. Weird doesn't even begin to cover this hunt."

Sam chuckled. "Want to stop off at the office tomorrow, grab your last paycheck?"

Dean's eyes widened at the thought. "I broke their photocopier, ate all their food, got half their pencils stuck to the ceiling and made a mortal enemy out of Gus. And all this _before _our little party tonight. If I walk back in there, they're going to lynch me."

Sam laughed at the genuine fear in Dean's voice. "You know this _whole _thing could've been avoided if you'd just let me take the office job."

"Yeah, yeah, I sure there's a moral in the story somewhere, but seriously, I just want to go home and shower." After a few more minutes of silence, Dean spoke again. "So, did any of those dudes hit on you?"

"Dean!"

"What?"

THE END

* * *

Hope you've enjoyed! 


End file.
